Written in Scars(15)

He tapped the screen of his phone and stared intently at it. He couldn’t help himself.

“Did you even see me on TV last night?” Sam asked.

“You recorded it didn’t you? I thought we’d watch it later. Together. How did it go?” he asked distractedly.

Sam closed his eyes and took another deep breath. Something inside him was dying, not his love for Johan, that died long ago – poisoned – but any lingering respect he had for him, together with the obligation he felt towards their marriage vows. “Why are we still together?” he asked at last.

“We’re married, that’s why,” Johan didn’t take his eyes off the phone.

“Is that the only reason?”

“It’s enough, isn’t it?” He tilted his hips and farted, gasping with satisfaction.

“You don’t love me. You certainly don’t fancy me.”

“What the fuck are you taking about? Man, just shut up. You’re doing my head in, you know that?”

“I won’t shut up, because we need to have this conversation.”

“We’ve had it,” Johan snapped. “A million times already.”

Sam fought to stay cool. Calm. He kept his voice low, so as not to rise to the argument. “And you told me things would change. No more drugs, no more men, no more strangers in my own bed.”

Johan’s breath hissed through his teeth like a petulant teenager. “And be fucking boring like you? You’d love that. I had a blip, all right. No big deal. Stop being such a pain about it. Christ, it won’t happen again.”

“Until the next time,” Sam muttered.

“There won’t be a fucking next time. Can’t you get that through your thick head.” Johan lashed out with his foot, kicking Sam hard on the outer thigh.

The shock of what he did was more painful than the impact.

Sam stared at him disbelievingly for a long moment. “No,” he said at last. “You’re right. There won’t be a next time because I won’t be here.”

“I won’t be here,” Johan mimicked, twisting his face as he spoke, swiping past images on his phone. “And where the hell will you go?”

Sam looked at him. There was no more anger in him to fight back. Nor pity. All he felt was a wretched sadness. A great sorrow for the time he’d wasted. Sticking with Johan these last few years, watching him spiral out of control, with no regard or respect for their relationship. This wasn’t the same the man he met as a teenager. This wasn’t the man he married seven years ago. That person was gone. All that remained was an addict unwilling to accept his addiction.

Sam had tried his best. He’d forgiven him, put up with his black moods and the humiliation of fucking hundreds of other men. But not anymore.

He deserved better. Logan had shown him more respect over breakfast than Johan had in a decade together.

He deserved Logan.

In your dreams. Despite their night together he still believed Logan was out of his league. That didn’t mean he had to settle for this.

Sam stood and quietly left the room. Johan continued to mimic him behind his back.

The suitcases were kept in the spare bedroom. He pulled down a medium sized trolley case from the top of the wardrobe. It would do for now. Big enough for a week at least. A lot of his clothes were also in the spare wardrobe which made the task easier. He selected clean shirts for work, a couple of T-shirts, jeans and sweat pants, and put one of his work suits into a separate carrier. He’d have to go back into the bedroom for clean underwear and socks.

Johan didn’t look up from his phone as Sam entered, his fingers moved fast over the screen, obviously sending a message to his next intended hook-up. Sam opened his drawer of the large pine dresser they shared and took out a pile of underpants. He didn’t count, but it looked enough for a week. He took them to the case in the spare room before going back for socks.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Johan sneered, phone on his chest, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“What I should have done a long time ago. I told you: I’m leaving.” Sam returned to the other room. He threw the socks into the case before heading to the bathroom to collect his toiletries.

Johan stumbled in behind him. Naked, still clutching his phone, his white cock was a flaccid slug between his over-developed, hairless thighs. “The amateur dramatics don’t work on me, so you might as well drop the act.”

Sam threw deodorant, toothpaste, moisturiser, shower gel and his toothbrush into a bag and shoved past Johan, back onto the landing. Now he’d decided to leave, he could barely bring himself to look at the cheating bastard. Putting the bag into the case, he closed the zipper.

“Oh, yeah, brilliant,” Johan mocked from the doorway. “Round of applause for a good show. I always knew you were a drama queen, but this – this is worthy of a bloody Oscar. Jesus, what a cunt you are.”

Sam barged past him, avoiding eye contact and lugged the case down the stairs. He left it at the front door and went back into the living room where he’d left his jacket. Johan stumbled after him, still bare-arsed naked. He grabbed Sam’s arm.

“Get off,” Sam jerked back.

“All right,” Johan said, holding both hands in the air. “You win. Give me the fucking lecture and get it over with, then you can drop this pathetic charade.”